Dork
by sinners'-delight
Summary: "We're here. Alone. For five more hours." - Otto. Lars. Saturday detention.
1. Chapter 1

Dear reader, This is a strange story that I started awhile ago and recently rediscovered and decided to finish. It took a bit of a different turn from my original plan, which might explain any strangeness. This is supposed to be a one-shot, though it feels unfinished, if inspired I think I might write more. This is in no way connected to any other stories I have published though, once again, focuses pretty heavily on Lars. I apologize for that. I think I have a bit of an obsession. The writing style is slightly different than the other two.

This is rated "M" mostly because the entire story is a descriptive sex scene between two young boys. I was in the mood to write some smut, what can I say. If you have a problem with that or are uncomfortable with any elements within this story than you probably shouldn't be reading anything rated "M". Please stick to age appropriate stories and don't waste my time time with a flame. Thank you.

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_Dork_

The walls are plastered white. Or they were once. The years have decayed them yellow. The chalkboard had writing on it but it was smeared away so that only dust remained. The teacher's desk is situated right before the board, covered in papers, pens and pencils, spilling and overflowing. To the left is a computer, buzzing with electricity, to the right, an empty coffee mug stained with red lipstick on the brim. There is a bookcase on the far wall, lined up on its shelves are twenty-seven textbooks with _U.S. History_ written in gold lettering on their spines. Forty desks line the room from front to back. Five rows of eight and I sit in the third row, first desk. The top has a carving of a cartoon man taking a bludgeon to the head, dark black blood everywhere and a heart at the top corner with the initials M.R. contained within.

I can hear the tick of the clock.

It wasn't my fault. Not my plan, not my paintball gun, not even my friends. I have to take the fall though. A month of Saturday detentions and my dad's disappointment is nothing compared to a lifetime of being known as "Otto Rocket, the squealer".

High school sucks. I remember when doing the right thing didn't mean the total annihilation of my reputation. It was a short-lived period in my toddler years, somewhere between learning to speak gibberish and forming coherent sentences.

The classroom door opens but I don't bother looking. That bitch Miss Palfrey is back. She confiscated my skates when I got to the school and the handheld game I was going to pass the time with. From the corner of my eye, I see she's not alone. Company? Great. Dark clothes, dark skin, and shaggy hair. Papers are shuffled, pencil scraped across paper, and words are exchanged.

My heart pounds madly in my chest, my face grows hot. I know that voice. Raspy and thick with accent. He's a senior. I never see him. I'm never supposed to see him. I focus my eyes on his back, furrow my brow, and tense my jaw. I straighten slightly and puff out my chest. He walks by without a glance, takes the desk three rows away.

Palfrey, tall and paltry, stares us down the crook of her nose and announces, "Since I have to waste my Saturday because of you miscreants and your sordid misdeeds, I will at least be productive. Stay in the room. I will be back and don't think I haven't seen _The Breakfast Club_." Good. I haven't.

Without another word, she leaves. And we're alone.

The last thing Lars Rodriguez said to me was, "Dork". It was two years ago, but it rings in my ears now. I don't remember why he'd said it, and despite him having said it to me many times before, that one time had really truly bothered me. I think I knew it would be the last time we'd exchange verbal jabs.

The clock ticks away. I don't dare turn to him. He remains stoically silent save the ripple of fabric as he shifts in his chair.

Even before that last word, he'd been gone. High school changed him. High school changes everyone. Changed me. Though maybe, I hope, not quite so much. His freshman year, four years ago, he'd stopped hanging around with his old friends and he disappeared off my radar. He stopped surfing in the same waters; stopped skating in the same park, even his brother barely saw him.

I wonder now where he's been. I dare a peek over my shoulder and start, jerk my eyes away. He's openly staring at me. My heart pounds again. My whole body is overcome with tremors. I'm angry. It's flowing from my every pore. Who the fuck does he think he is? I feel burned. His eyes scathe me. My instinct is to cross the room and punch him. I'm waiting for him to do the same. We'd wanted to exchange swings since I was in diapers. Now is the moment. I feel it in my core. We're equals now. He's no longer a large bully picking on a small kid. We're both young men ready for battle.

"I will be back."

My heart stops. We're still sitting in our chairs. My hands rest on the top of my desk. I realize his voice has gotten low. I guess mine has too but I wouldn't know. I find myself wondering what he thinks of me now, how much I've changed, how much I haven't. I'm afraid to see how much he has. Part of me needs the old him if only for the familiarity of hating that jerk of my past.

I mull over his words and eventually my curiosity outweighs the disgust I feel at conversing with him, "What?"

"She says 'I will be back' but doesn't tell us when. It's her way of scaring us into staying in our seats; afraid she could burst through the door at any moment. She's not coming back."

I sit very still for an exaggerated moment. I don't remember Lars ever being rational. I turn the words over in my head looking for the trap. It seems too simple that he wants me to do something stupid so that I get in trouble when Palfrey returns. But then again, his tricks always were simple and transparent.

"So you think she just left us here?"

I hear fabric move and the scrape of the desk. "No. She can't do that. I mean, she'll be back eventually but not until two, when we leave. Until then, she'll spend the day in the teachers' lounge watching the stack of movies she always brings with her to these things and eating chocolate bars. That woman needs to get laid."

These things. He says it so simply. Detention is just one of these things. How many times has he been to these things?

His sneakers plod softly on the carpet and I curl my fingers into my palm. Wait. Heart pounding, breath bated. Here it comes.

"I don't remember you ever being so quiet." I draw myself up, snarl under my breath, catch myself and turn puzzled. It wasn't an insult. The words were calm. No underlying aggression.

He's standing by the teacher's desk looking amusedly at the papers. I see him now. He's tall and slender. His hair falls in sunken brown eyes, dark pools. There's an old scar under his left one, the skin is light, a shimmering silver gash.

"Let me guess, you like the change?" I growl.

"Not so much," he catches me off guard. He plays with a few pens, glances inside the empty mug. He seems to lose interest in the desk, turns to lean against it looking to me.

My heart starts pounding again. I realize, he hasn't changed all that much. He's still all swagger and arrogance. His mannerisms like a predator stalking its prey. The deeply rooted bully inside of him. His even glare set on me was ablaze with…what? I didn't know. Even as we were children, busting on one another, there had always been this hunger in him that unnerved me. Even now.

I find interest in my hands, deeply tanned, coarse and calloused. My head is spinning with fever. Sit down and leave me alone, my mind screams. I need him to leave me alone. I need him to be gone.

"We're here for a while. Conversation passes time," he remarks. Logical. I don't like it.

"What have we got to talk about?" I bite. A challenge. I meet his eyes with cold hard glare. Briefly, his gaze flickers away. He folds his arms over his chest, kicks at something unseen on the ground.

There is a calm in him that begs a storm. I find myself on my feet but lose whatever direction my body wanted to go in. My mind is pulsing. He wanders to the bookshelf, scans the texts. I watch.

"Where have you been?" my voice asks, though I don't remember commanding my mouth to form the words. I don't want to know.

"Here and there," he responds distantly. Bullshit answer.

"You're the one that wanted to converse," I growl. I edge around the desks. Fold my arms over my chest. Yes, I do. "So converse."

He twists to look at me. My heart is pounding too fast, lightheaded. I stand my ground.

"Where have you been," he echoes, to himself not to me. He truly seems to be thinking on the question. Dark stare refocus on mine, a smirk plays on his dusty lips. "I don't recall going anywhere."

Frustration floods my senses. "Then why don't I ever see you around anymore?"

My face is hot. I don't understand the question. It sounds wrong. His face contorts. Confused. He's fully turned now. His calm has ruffled. He's looking at me as though for the first time that morning he has finally seen me. The hunger, that scares me, fills his features.

He quickly turns back to the bookshelf, traces his fingers over the spines of the texts. I note the contour of his back beneath his t-shirt. The way it curves and dips. A thought amuses me. He's more man than boy now. My chest is ready to explode. Sit down, I beg myself, let it go.

"Didn't know you cared so much," he scoffs. I grimace.

"I don't."

He casts me a sardonic smile. Faces me again, leans heavily back against the bookshelf, arms draped across his chest. I notice a piece of twine is tightly wound around his left wrist. A fluorescent yellow Band-Aid wrapped around his pinky and scrawled words on the back of his hand. Doodles.

"What if I told you I'm purposely avoiding you?"

Heart in throat. Everything stops. My ears buzz.

A moment passes. A grin spreads across his face. He relaxes, chin drops to chest, chuckling. I start to breath again. In a few strides he's crossed the room, laughing at the ground all the while.

"You're such a dork."

I hate that. I hate him. I want to punch him. I'm ready to swing. My body itches for it. My hands are in fists, tight, nails biting into the palm, my muscles tense. Just one jab. Arms length in front of me he stops. I'm ready for it. He meets my eyes. The mirth on his lips hasn't reached his own dark orbs. The part of me that's afraid of him, that's always yelled at me to run from him, suddenly encompasses my entire being. His intensity cuts into me like a hot serrated knife.

"I think that's what I first started to love about you."

I can't see. I can't hear. I can't think. I can't move.

"Wha…what?"

He takes a step forward; so close the hair at the nape of my neck stands on end. His face is so near to mine, his breath hot on my skin. He smells of Spanish spices and the ocean. Far to a dark corner of my brain, I oddly wonder what I smell of.

His words are low and harsh, "Or maybe I'm just busting on you."

He stands over me. He's taller, bulkier than I am. I'm slim, scrawny but always wiry and quick. He's waiting. Warm flesh and piercing stare searching me. He wants me to say something. I don't know. I remain silent. I step back. Eye him warily. He sits atop a desk. Watches me. Cat. Mouse. I pace away. Run a hand over the back of my neck. Steady my breathing.

"Five hours."

I glance at him. Flustered, I know. He points to the wall clock as though it explains everything.

"We're here. Alone. For five more hours."

I don't need the reminder. He's smiling. Looking distantly at the tiled floor.

"Still so quiet?"

"Ever hear the word awkward?" I snap. He doesn't respond.

I make my way to the bookshelf. Lean against it. Close my eyes. Compose myself. His jokes are more twisted now. I don't approve. I don't want to be in this room. Wherever he's been, I want him to go back there. I'm weary. I'm tired. I need the beach. I need the surf.

"Hey." The word is a quick half shout.

My eyes pop open. He's leaning over me; hand grips the shelf above my head, looking down. Eyes shadowed with emotion. Concern, maybe? Uncertainty? Our bodies are close again. There's a small mole on his neck, just above his collarbone. It's camouflaged against his olive skin. I fight the urge to press my fingertip to it. I try to recall when exactly it was he stopped coming around. I see that his cheeks are tinged with color.

"Don't think about it," he mumbles. I try to ask what he means. Words catch in my throat. I wet my lips with an errant tongue. Press myself hard against the shelf.

"Really, where have you been?"

Momentarily, he looks away. Sighs heavily. He seems…tired. He places both hands either side of me, lowers his face to mine, and I panic as he closes the space between us, my hands come up instinctively to push against his chest. He's solidly built, all muscle. I'm pinned in place, nowhere to run. I can't look up at him.

"Tell me something, Rocket, how much do you really want to know about me?" he snarls. That familiar bitter resentment in his voice.

I swallow hard. Can't concentrate. I think he sees fear in me. He relaxes, suddenly rests his face in the crook of my neck. It startles me. It's not…uncomfortable. His warm breath is wet against my skin. There's hollowness in my chest I can't explain.

I missed him, I realize. I missed his angry stares, his offhanded insults, his unruly tangle of flesh and limbs and evil jibes. Go away, I plead. I close my eyes.

"Sorry," he whispers into my skin. My body softens. He lifts his face. He's smiling forlornly, laughing slightly.

"For what," I try to sound tough but my words tremble soft and shy. We're alone. In a room with forty desks. For five hours. I'm pressed beneath him to a bookshelf. Sanity reasons I should push him off, connect a fist to his jaw. But my muscles are limp. There's a dull ache in my lower abdomen.

Lars meets my eyes. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Grins dangerously. "I tried."

He pushes me hard into the bookshelf; it explodes loudly, and he catches my lips with his own. My mind swirls, the world bombards my senses. I don't know what to do. He's holding me by my shoulders, working his mouth against mine. His kiss is rough, insistent. His teeth jagged against my skin. I whimper, it sounds more throaty. There's pressure on my hips. He pulls away entirely. I'm left shivering against the books. He walks from me in quick long strides, hair hides his features. I hear him, panting. I hear me. Heart pounding. I grasp the shelves for support. Spinning.

"Lars…" I don't know that voice. It comes from me, but I don't know it. That childish half plea. It sifts into a low rumble, "Lars. Come back."

He turns, body rigid, eyes hard, jaw set. I am barely standing, my chest rises and falls rapidly, my breath weighty and audible, my body flushed but I meet him glare for glare.

"Come back," I repeat, so low I doubt he hears.

He crosses the room in slow deliberate motions, grabs my shirt in a fist, and pulls me to him, our lips almost touching. My bottom lip quivers. I shudder. He tries to say something. Stops himself. Starts to let me go.

"Five hours," I remind him. He reaffirms his grip. I feel a smirk across my features.

Our mouths crash into one another's. He's got me by the collar, my fingers claw into his shirt. He's pushing me. I'm pushing back.

Let it go, my mind screams.

Fuck off, my body answers.

I shove him hard into a desk, it scrapes against the floor. For a moment, he pauses, catches my look, sneers and comes at me. His hands grab my waist, fingers bruising; I trip as he pulls me forward. Hot kisses trail my neck. I run my hands up his shirt, drag my nails down his back. He grimaces through a grin. Returns the favor, nipping at my ear, sucking hard on my lobe. I make noises I didn't know I made. I run my fingers along his spine again, his skin ripples under my touch, and I hate how I like it.

"Take it off," he rasps.

I obey, pull his shirt over his head; let it drop to the floor. Sober a moment, staring at his bare chest as he watches me warily. I ghost a hand over his collar bone, across a peck touching his hardened nipple with a light fingertip, slowly down his well-toned abdomen as his taut stomach moves in and outward, trace my fingers down the top of his pants, around the button, finger the zipper, eye his visible hard on and lay my hand on his hip. I meet his eyes. They're softened, unyielding. Afraid. Imagine its how a girl feels on a first date. I lean up and touch my mouth to that mole on his neck. Pull away, eyes still locked on his.

Reverie breaks. My fingers curl, bite into his skin, he kisses me again, hard and furious, prying my lips open. His tongue darts in my mouth, I wrestle it with my own. We maneuver through the desks, pushing and absently knocking them out of our way. He leans me against one and I sit hard upon its top, my right heel coming up to its edge so that my knee is by his side, balancing me back so I'm not completely crushed under his control. He chews my lower lip, hand sliding beneath the leg of my jean shorts across the outer thigh, his nails digging in my flesh. I blush at the long moan it draws from my throat, shamed at the way it makes my back arch in pleasure. I have to retaliate.

I break away, escape to the top of the desk, standing looking down at him. His mouth is curled in a sadistic smile, he tugs the hem of my shirt and I understand, peeling it from my sweat-dampened form and feeling the fabric slip from my fingers. I lower myself to my knees, hands on his shoulders for support, and meet his waiting mouth with my own kiss. I wrap an arm around his neck, snake my fingers through his hair. He slides his hands into my back pockets; thumbs trace the top where the blue jean becomes skin pulling me down and toward him but I don't follow, pulling away and sliding over the desk opposite of him. He questions me with a quirk of his brow. We're both breathing hard; our bodies glisten with a thin layer of sweat.

I walk unsteadily away, trailing my finger over the desk. Mind reeling. He can wait. I feel his eyes on me. Burning into me. I run my hand over my neck, slowly down my chest. Center of the room I turn to him. Let him watch as I bite my lower lip, toy with the top hem of my jeans. I look up at him through lashes; he wears a Cheshire cat grin, and I smile. He comes towards me, I take a few steps back before he catches me, wraps me in strong arms and rough, bruising kisses that I furtively return. I rake my nails down his arms; nibble his neck and collar as he tugs at my dreadlocks. The back of my legs hit the teacher's desk and he grins mischievously down at me, a look I match.

Papers, pens, pencils, even the coffee mug tumble to floor as I slide up top the desk, resting propped up on elbows, his hands press into the fake wood grain on either side of me, his face leering into my own, the bottoms of my sneakers smashing dirt footprints on what papers remain on the desk.

He pulls me down towards him, catching another kiss on my lips. One hand holding him just above me, the other tangled in my dreadlocks at the base of my head, which I roll back as he tastes my chin, nips at my neck and kisses the spot. He takes it slow now and it's all I can do to hold myself up as his mouth massages against the bare flesh of my chest.

He samples my shoulder, runs a hot tongue across my collarbone. He trails soft kisses along my sternum. Catches me off guard and bites my nipple, sucking hard. I gasp, my fingers curl scratching at the desk.

My breath comes in sharp, jagged pants. He teases the nipple a moment, hands tracing down my sides and his fingers slip into my pants at the spine caressing my butt cheeks. He kisses the areola, raw and tight, and continues downward. He pauses at my bellybutton, drags his tongue upward and rapidly trails kisses down again. He lifts himself up slightly, curls my right pant leg down and places a kiss to the inner thigh. It tickles. I squirm. He does it again, lower. Again. Again. Again. Stops. Looks to me.

My hair hangs wildly about my face, my headband discarded somewhere between the bookshelf and here. My eyes are half closed, lips slightly parted, my breathing is harsh and ragged. I'm damp with sweat, overwhelmed with ache and want. I try to form words but it comes out in strange, guttural noises.

He smiles, disappears and I growl softly; pull myself to my elbows and watch him drag the chair from around the desk, its metal legs screeching on the tile. He spins it around and sits straddling its back. Now he leans comfortably over me.

He touches my leg, kisses my knee and my chest tightens. I loll my head back to stare distantly at the ceiling as his deft fingers undo my pants. He glances at me once, and then slowly tugs the zipper down. I murmur something incomprehensible. He pulls at my shorts; I shift my body to help somewhat. He reveals my full erection and my stomach turns as if it confirms something I knew – feared - all along. This is not right, I think somewhere in the back of my mind. This is wrong.

I run my tongue over my bottom lip in anticipation, knowing …wanting…what was coming next.

He rolls his eyes up to meet mine, holding my gaze as he lowers his head to flick his tongue across the tip of my stiff shaft and I catch my breath. He grins at me surreptitiously, clicking his tongue appraisingly. He traces his fingers along my hipbone, runs a finger the full length of my erection and it tingles, sending a spasm of pure ecstasy through my body.

He has me at his mercy, I realize. I hate it. He revels in it. He lets his fingers walk my inner thigh, kissing the soft, bare flesh, and shivers of excitement run across my spine. He runs a tongue up my leg and I moan a strangled, "please," before I can stop myself.

"Please," he repeats, enjoying this too much, the sadistic bastard. He arches an amused brow at me, running his tongue from my navel to the base of my penis, "Please…what?"

"Just…please…" I gasp, squeeze my eyes close.

"You have to tell me what you want, Rocket _dork_," he says wickedly, shining eyes on me, breath hot against my already burning erection.

I groan frustration, "Just…God…_Lars_."

Hearing his name from my lips in that husky moan seems to ignite something in him and he licks the length of my dick top to bottom fueling a half caught cry from my throat. He grins at me and we lock eyes.

"Do it," I command, though I don't know how powerful it sounds as a pant.

No hesitation, he takes my dick into his mouth and instinctively my body rolls forward with a gasp causing him to deepen his descent on my cock. He's wrapped his arms beneath my back, pulling me close and I'm curled over him, clawing at his shoulder blades. I don't know what he's doing, a combination of drawing in air and releasing it as his tongue swirls around my erection, but the feeling is unlike anything I've ever experienced. Riding a ten-foot wave, catching serious backside air, blazing down a snow covered mountain. Nothing compares.

"Ah…ah…ah," I pant, trying to hold down the cries attempting to break free.

When I feel myself losing, I fall back on the desk; bite my lower lip hard, blood seeps through my teeth.

"Lars…" I whimper pathetically. He increases his vivaciousness.

My eyes widen. I know this feeling from late nights self-serving, waking up horny from dreams I couldn't remember. I don't know why but porn never really worked for me.

But…this feeling is different. More intense, overwhelming almost. I fear my body. I have no control over it.

He is in control. His hands capable of drawing whatever erotic sounds he wants me to make with a touch or a stroke.

He, who tormented and bullied me. He, who I had hated, who hated me.

He, who left me.

He left me. All I wanted was him to bust on me. To challenge me. To pay attention to me. To acknowledge how great I am.

To want me.

I feel it rushing through my body.

"Oh. Shit," I breath. He's working faster, harder. Lifting from his chair to take more of me in. I can't catch my breath, I'm clawing the sides of the desk, my hand shoves at the keyboard, presses against the computer monitor, my other hand digging in his hair. "Don't," I say but my moans of pleasure urge him to keep going, "Lars…god…Lars," I chant, "I…I'm…cu…"

I struggle to muffle the cry that rips from my chest as my body releases in climax. I'm on the balls of my feet, my back is arched, my head thrown back, my eyes and mouth open wide, one hand grips tight the mussed tendril of his hair, the other pressed hot and sweaty against the computer monitor.

I shudder with the orgasm several times, as the cry dies to a low moan, then becomes labored breathing. My body falls limp and he leans back in the chair, pushing hair from his eyes and running a hand over his face and mouth. I mildly note that he must have swallowed most of the cum.

It seems a long time that we sit there. Then he stands and walks from the chair and I weakly force myself up to watch wide-eyed as he crosses the room. He comes back with a box of tissue and with a surprising tenderness opposite of our recent sexual act he cleans me up, never looking to me despite my steady gaze on him. When he finishes, he tosses the used tissue and drags the chair back behind the desk as I slip down and pull my pants back up, silently redo them. I'm surprised I can stand, though just barely as I lean heavily on the desk for support.

Tired, I survey the room. Books have fallen over on the shelf, dislodged and disarrayed, desks are scattered or flipped on their side. Papers, pencils, pens, litter the floor, stamped with sneaker prints. The ones on the desk are sticky and damp. The coffee mug had rolled under a far away desk; a large crack runs down its side. I frown.

"We made a mess," I note. I can't seem to raise my voice above a decibel. He snorts lightly, humorously. "We should probably clean," I say, look to him.

He's staring at the teacher's desk, his hand on the back of his neck. I can't see his face. He seems different…lost. I think of the hunger in his eyes. Avoiding me. That's what he'd said. That he was avoiding me. Dork. The word stings now.

"Lars?" I call, terse. He doesn't respond. Worry edges my tone, "Lars…?" He shifts, finally glances at me, eyes dark pools I eagerly dip in. A soft smile drifts across his features. He turns away, brushes a hand through his hair, the smile is gone.

"Yeah," he mumbles, taking a haggard breath, "We should clean."

We do so in silence. Find discarded garments and return them to our bruised and weary bodies along the way. I take a seat back at my original desk, lay my head down and watch as he paces the room like a caged animal. His movement reflects exactly how I feel and were I not so exhausted I would probably pace with him.

He stops. His back to me. Starts in a wavering rasp, "Otto…"

The door to the classroom flings open and we both start. I guess we both had forgotten where we were for a moment.

Miss Palfrey waltzes in and fixes Lars with a heated glare. He stares unmoving at her. I sit straight up in my chair.

"Why are you up and about, Mister Rodriguez?" she demands.

"Uh…I needed a tissue…" he lamely explains. She frowns in return. Not buying it. She points to the student desks.

"Sit," she barks. He rolls his eyes but obeys.

Palfrey sets about straightening the papers on her desk. She makes a face as she pries one particularly stubborn piece off the top for some reason it's so sticky. She examines it with prodding fingers. She eyes us and I slump down, cheeks undoubtedly red. I wonder vaguely if she knows, if somehow she can see where Lars's hands and lips had been on my skin. I try to catch Lars's eye but he's focused forward. She puts the paper down and makes a pile. She puts it into her bag and heads towards the door, which she opens, standing in its frame, motions to us.

"Alright, boys, its over. Time to go home. That wasn't too torturous, was it?" she says. Slowly, we rise and walk to the door. He brushes past me and my arm tingles where his skin touches. He exits and I grudgingly follow. Palfrey locks up behind us.

As we head outside, Lars stops, catches my sleeve. I flush and glare up at him, ready for my old archenemy to rear his ugly head. He glances Palfrey leaving towards the faculty parking lot; no parting words or last looks. I follow his gaze. I turn back. He cups my chin and gingerly kisses my bruising bottom lip. We part and he holds my eyes, hand lingering on my cheek.

"Dork," he grins, and I lower my head, hide the smile as he releases me and walks away, calling over his shoulder, "See you next Saturday."


	2. Chapter 2

**Dear Reader**, I apologize if you had the terrible misfortune of reading the sheer and utter crap I originally posted as "Chapter 2". And while I thank Zbbal, for your kind words, I know what it was. Poor writing. I did a terrible disservice to the characters of this story and the readers who were so kind as to compliment the original posting with such zeal. Please accept my sincerest apologies and this - hopefully - better rewrite. I spent an entire day hating myself for posting what I knew was subpar and there is no excuse. Disregard it, if you can, and please do not shirk away from reading this as a result. I wanted to upload this so as not to leave those who recieved e-mails of update waiting, so I haven't proofed yet. If there are any glaring errors, please tell me so that I may quickly fix them. Thank you.

**Warning**: Descriptions of sexual activity between two young boys and a scene of masturbation. Flames should be well-thought out and carefully worded. I don't want a flickering candlelight, I want a roaring brush fire.

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Dork

The walls are lined with books. The books form walls of their own. Shelves stacked high. They tower over and press in impressively, intimidatingly. Despite the mass of people, its quiet. The only noise in the large room is the low hum of a short row of computers at the front. At times people will talk but in soft murmurs that die out before they have the chance to become audible. Between the shelves are round tables with four chairs each. One for each row of shelves. I'm sitting at one such table, between the fourth and fifth rows, beside a large window obscured by cream colored blinds. Between those blinds, the sunlight drifts inward illuminating in its glow tiny specks of dust. It cascades over the faux wood-grained table top and the ignored textbook that lies open in front of me with its glossy white pagers covered in colorful numbers and words.

I'm staring distantly at the books neatly lined up on the shelves, pretending to be interested in the titles I don't recognize on their spines while twirling my pen. _The Complete Works of Plato. Nietzsche. Kant. _

Study hall is a waste of an hour.

My study partner sits uncomfortably closer than necessary attempting to demonstrate the steps in solving one of the numerous problems in our text. He writes furiously with his blue mechanical pencil in his spiral notebook numbers and symbols I stopped paying attention to several minutes ago. His blond hair is over-jelled and he smells of musky cologne.

"So when we cross-multiply the denominator and numerator, we are left with...?" he exclaims eagerly. He turns to me for the answer and I offer him a blank look.

"A...number?"

He sighs, a weary whoosh, and slumps disgruntled.

Okay. Clearly not the right answer.

"You could at least try, Otto," he tells me, irritation obvious.

I fold my arms on the table and cradle my chin between them. I've known Sam Dullard since age ten. He's younger than me and a year above me. I probably wouldn't feel as insecure about it if he hadn't grown taller than me, also. Doesn't help that he also forgets not everyone is as smart as him.

He seems to sense my defeat and decides, "Look. I'll go over it again."

His voice is soft as he talks. His words plain and simple, as layman as he can get. He leans in close to me, our shoulders flush, and pokes me with the pencil when he wants to emphasize a point. I try to pay attention but his explanation blurs together. Its long and overwhelming, there's too many numbers, too many odd lines and strange squiggly doodles. I stare at the watch on his right hand instead. Its water proof, black rubber with a digital face. The skin beneath is pink. He's too pale. My arm next to his is like night and day.

He uses the pencil to push his eyeglasses up, they've been persistently slipping down his nose all class. Not long ago he traded his usual thick black-rimmed square frames for thin silver oval things. I had told him at the time they looked nice but I didn't really like them. He had always been the butterball of my friends. The nerd with ambitions of coolness. It's the role I cast him in. Making changes to his appearance threatened that role.

"How much longer are you grounded?" he asks. It startles me. I guess he gave up. Threw mathematics in the pile of causes lost on me. I'd be pleased if I weren't so hung up on the idea of graduating with my class and needed to pass Algebra II to do it. He's still leaning against my shoulder, tapping his pencil on the notepad and watching me curiously.

I shrug. It's not really an answer but its the best I've got.

"Raymundo said until I'm old enough to retire."

Sam drops his voice and brings his face near mine. The proximity is a bit unsettling but I ignore the urge to pull away.

"Why don't you just tell the principle who really did it?" he demands. His words are damp on my cheek. I roll my eyes.

"I like my social status." He makes an argumentative noise so I amend haggardly, "Okay. I like the way my face looks. Why do you care so much anyway?"

He flusters, cheeks tinging pink, and pulls himself up. He does a wonderful fish impression, mouth blubbering open and shut, as he searches for an excuse.

He settles on, "Because you're my friend."

Then shakes his head and adds, "And while you're on parental lock-down, I have to entertain Twister."

I smirk.

My best bro and the Squid. There is a comedy act I miss watching. It wasn't as though he meant to, but Twister had an impeccable way of getting under Sam's skin. It was something about the way he asked questions with obvious answers and made comments or bodily noises not generally considered polite. It would be a good reason to care about my whereabouts if it wasn't also a dead give away that Sam wasn't being entirely honest. The two didn't spend much time together when I wasn't around. I was the most they had in common.

I let it slide though and my lack of calling him out on the lie is his cue to continue chiding me.

"It's not fair, Rocket boy. You're taking the fall for something you didn't do. I'm just not understanding why you can't turn in the real culprits. You know who they are. Despite what you say, I know you aren't afraid of them."

I glare at the librarian. I can see her easily from where I sit, standing at her circular counter checking in books. Her thin graying ebony hair is twisted atop her head and held in place by a few blue ballpoint pens. Her dress is black with red polka-dots. She wears black cat-eye glasses and her eyes themselves are framed in long, black, fake lashes. She always pauses in what she's doing to smile when students walk by. Her eyes linger too long when those students are boys.

"I don't like cheese," I mutter.

"What?"

"I don't like cheese. I'm not a rat."

Sam sighs again. I feel like he's been doing that all study hall. I wonder if he ever gets tired of being so annoyed. He start to doodle without care on the notepad. Of course, his version of doodling is writing out long equations and slowly solving them. Nerd.

"How horrible is Saturday detention?"

Images flood my mind as blood rushes to my face.

Me pinned against a bookshelf of history texts. Dark brewing eyes and a solidly built chest. A singularly perfect mole on a singularly perfect collarbone. Angular hands, roughly calloused, coursing down my bare thighs. Pens and papers sprawled on the floor. Toppled desks. Flushed cheeks and a pouted mouth trailing kisses. A hot erection. A looming lover casting the shadow of an old enemy.

A milk white hand wags in my face. I blink.

"What?" I growl.

"I asked about Saturday. Twister had mentioned that Lars should have been there, that's he's been serving Saturday detentions pretty much since school started. Big surprise there. I know you two don't really fight much anymore but how torturous was it? I saw him the other day. He's gotten scary. I mean, he was scary before but I always just chalked that up to me being so much smaller than him. You know, how your perspective as a kid is so skewed. We're the same height now but he still seems so big."

I turn my face away. Let Sam drone on. It's what he's best at. I play with the pen in my hand, dexterously slide it between fingers. I try not to think about it. Saturday. The last day in the week. I used to look forward to it. Sit daydreaming through long lectures thinking about how I'd spend that one perfectly free day.

Would I sleep in? Would I wake early to surf? Would I languish on the beach? Would I shred Madtown?

Now I don't know what to daydream. Detention doesn't usually play into anyone's fantasies.

I close my eyes.

Forty desks lined up in neat little rows. The ticking of the clock an insanity inducing drum beat. A slender teacher with a penchant for leaving her delinquent wards unattended. The classroom is quiet, deafeningly so. Nothing is emptier than a classroom without students. He is the personification of crash. His movements are explicit. His body curves smooth and fluid as the ripples in the tide. His taste is cinnamon, his smell anise and cilantro.

I feel the awnings of arousal and catch myself mid-lust. Burst back into the cacophony of dying whispers and screaming dusty tomes. Sam has stopped talking. I glance him askance. He's watching me, feigning disinterest. I press my lips together. Take a settling breath. Let the blood flow into my veins again. Cool the heat simmering in my belly.

"It was a Saturday lost," I say, more terse than I intended.

Sam nods. The movement is stiff, calculated. He's putting too much thought into such a simple gesture. It makes me nervous. I sniffle casually. Straighten and take up the notepad he's been writing on. I glare at the swirl of numbers.

"Mathematics sucks," I announce, "I'm never going to understand it."

"You don't try," Sam silently admits.

I flinch involuntarily. He's fingering the binding of his English text book, neatly stacked under his math. Studying the table top as though there's a lengthy equation scrawled across it that he's trying desperately to solve. He's chewing the corner of his mouth. His left sneaker is pressed against the back leg of my chair. It's moments like these when I wonder what it is he really wants from me.

He's not very athletic. Always been on the husky side. He stumbles, trips over himself, to keep up with me and Twister. Girls don't really like him. The charm of a shy geek is overwhelmingly lost in the patronizing of words and mannerisms. He doesn't mean to talk down, he really does just forget not everyone is as smart as him.

I think about the way he sits. Precariously balanced on the tip of his chair. Torn between leaning back and falling forward. I think about the feel of his shoulder pressed against mine and the heat of his words on my face. His eagerness to please, his earnest concern, his bulging stammered mouth and wide eyed expressions. I feel like there's something on the edge of my mind. A dawning of realization eclipsed by the uncertainty of the situation's reality.

I wonder if sometimes he wishes he were me. I wonder if its more than sometimes.

"Are you alright?" he asks, it seems out of the blue and I perk a brow of question. "You're just...really quiet."

I shrug. Wrap my hands over my head, stretch forward on the table and yawn. He smiles at me, a strange look of endearment. I scramble my mind for a reply. The eruption of dismissal bell saves me the trouble. I give him another shrug and stand. I slam my book closed, scoop it up, and toss my bag over my shoulder.

"See ya," I tell him and hurry into the flurry of exiting students. Whatever his farewell is I don't hear it.

I'm lingering in a moment. Navigating an ocean of people rushing to their next destinations. Wading through the semblances of my mind. The ocean, beautiful expanse of glittering crystal. All at once serene and perilous. The ocean is like sex. Tumultuous and encompassing. Seeping into your skin and lungs. It rips from you air and leaves you breathless. It pulls from you heat and leaves you cold and desiring. It bruises your body and leaves you battered and wounded.

Or maybe is just him. Maybe he is the ocean. A delicate combination of violent and calm.

I slip into the bathroom wafting of excrement and un-deodorized armpit. Nod my head to acknowledge the boys inside though I only recognize but not really know any of them. Some stand over urinals, white enclaves fixed along the blue tiled walls, and I can hear their steady or not-so-steady streams. Others linger at the sinks, there are only four, washing their hands and combing their hair. They pretend not to want to chat with one another. Only girls do that.

Nonchalant, I take one of two stalls, lock the door secure behind me and hang up my bag on the provided hook. I stare at the toilet, small porcelain bowl with a red stained ring inside, and ponder the last time it was cleaned. The warning bell sounds, a loud siren echoing through the halls and traffic out the door is suddenly heavy, urinals flushing in rapid succession. I lean my back against the stall door, its an ugly brown cream color etched with various graffiti marks advertising phone numbers, indecent sexual acts, and spewing randomly or targeted insults. I listen to the boys leaving, glare at the ceiling with its ugly white partitions and energy efficient incandescent light bulbs.

The final bell screams out that I should be in class and I finally feel alone. I sigh. It's a relief. The day is way too long. It should be a crime keeping me locked inside for more than two hours at a time. I rub at my face and roll thoughts around between my ears. Numbers float in my peripheral but I'm thinking of something more substantial. I link my fingers behind my neck and smirk at the floor. A half torn square of toilet paper lays beside my brown sneaker.

Saturday. I've tried not to dwell on it. Too many questions. Not enough answers. I'm lucky groundation for me doesn't mean the same as to other impressionable boys my age. There are no long hours sitting in my room meditating on my offenses. For me, groundation is hard labor. Dinner rush at the Shack. Serving up the beach's best burgers while my dad takes the orders and his large Hawaiian best friend grills the food. Though the time goes by fast, I almost think I'd prefer my room. It's like Chinese water torture, to be close enough to the ocean that I can taste the salt settling on my lips and not be able to slip into its icy embrace with a board under my belly.

I want to say it just happened. Its over and done with. That it means nothing. But it lilts in my mind. Vivid memories springing clear to the forefront at inopportune moments in time. I wake in the middle of the night in cold sweats with a rock hard erection and a biding afterimage of a face I know so well and have tried so hard to forget. This must be what addiction is like.

There is that sticky uncertainty, after an abnormal interaction occurs between two otherwise perfect stranger, when no one knows quite where to go. Feelings left over are ambiguous. They have no place in the past and, while they fit in that moment, they don't quite fit in the future. Despite our twined childhoods, he and I were strangers and though in that near instantaneous act we were connected, we are now...uncertain.

I sigh. The door rattles as I flop against it and bury my face in the palm of a hand. High school is complicated enough.

I haven't seen him in days. It's a harsher punishment than anything my dad or the school board can think up. It fascinates and frustrates me all at one. I marvel at the way he so easily fades into gone. And while I really don't look, his absent face in the crowd is more pronounced now than it ever was before. At times I unintentionally imprint him on boys with similar features, dark hair and eyes, and when I scrutinize them closer I realize there's nothing of him in them. They don't roll like a wave or stare intense as a horizon.

I wonder, not for the first time since that paradigm shifting day, what I'm really longing for. Is it the warmth of a body? Or the warmth in his arms?

Its already been so long. And I'm so tired of fighting it. Five days have passed. Five long, unending days, since five inexplicable hours. I'm alone now, I realize. At least, I'm alone for some forty-odd minutes until the next bell rings. I haven't thought about it. Not once. Pushed it to the background, white noise superimposed over my day. Let it lie there and fester untouched.

But I'm alone now. I let it in now. Let it flow outward, over my senses.

We were alone. He and I. I and he. I. He. We. Alone.

Rewind the moments in my mind. Separate, rearrange, dissect, and disseminate. I'm sitting in the classroom. I'm staring at the chalkboard. I'm talking. He's talking. We're exchanging words. Accidentally falling into an argument. It's our pattern.

I slow the replay down. The bookshelf exploded behind my spine, the bruise is still there. My whole body is still riddled with aches and sores, well-earned battle scars. I take a few steadying breaths. Hard swallow. Grip my bicep tight. His lips seemed coarse, they broke the blood vessels, but there was an underlying softness. A tremor, subtle, that I nearly missed. I think on it now. A small detail that sets heavy now against my chest. A gripping gnaw I can't explain.

My breath is getting shallow. I run a hand across my neck and trail it along my collar bone to the other side. I close my eyes to better see the images flickering through my mind.

I can almost feel him against me again. That even pressure firm on my chest and abdomen, holding me up more than I realized then. Now it rushes furious at me. The weakness shivering in my lower extremities. Braced against something so solid and unyielding, I wonder now how I could have crumbled and fell.

The kiss. His kiss. Ghosted on my mouth. Hot and wet. My bottom lip quivers and I bite it to hold it in place. My skin is pulsing, shuddering with need. I slide a hand beneath my shirt to give me some relief. The touch ripples up my stomach, which I instinctively tense, and it jolts down my spine. It's hard not to think of his hands. Hot and sweaty palms. They grabbed at me so roughly, and I'm enraptured again in that pull and push of our fervor. I almost hear his apology,_ I tried_, on my earlobe. It races under my skin and coupled with the hand tracing circles over my belly and up my chest, I start to feel lightheaded.

I think of peeling his shirt off, the lightness of the fabric between my fingers. The freeing feel of watching it fall haplessly to the floor like a burden lifted that I don't remember ever weighing me down. His bare chest is like my own, stocky and well-toned. But his shoulders are broad and his skin is a deeper shade of bronze. I want to trace the cords of his arms, I settle for my own. I lick my lips and recall his mouth on mine. The taste so bittersweet. It lay in my mouth for the rest of the day. I suck on my own lip, bite into it for good measure.

We crossed the rooms in strides. A pace unmatched by the pounding thrall of our intoxicated gasps for air. Again I'm standing, again I'm kneeling, again I'm tormented, overwhelmed, restless. I think of him here in front of me now. Suckling my neck, invigorating my senses. I whimper without meaning to, it echoes against tile. I startle momentarily. Eyes flash open like a child caught in the act of stealing candy. Remind myself I'm alone and slip again into the haunted memory of his touch.

I brush my fingertips up and down my sternum line. Think of him curling his hand in my hip. His nails breaking into flesh. He's moving his tongue along my jaw, sinking his teeth into my chin, up to my mouth. Its churning inside me, the whirl of adrenaline. It's his hand on my mouth, its his hand on my chest, its his fingers massaging my nipple hard as he braces me up against the bathroom stall. It's his tongue in my mouth. It's his teeth nibbling my lip.

He's taking his time. He's drawing it out. I murmur erotic. I quiver under his imagined fingertips. At his imagined mercy he draws from me the whimpers and moans that I wish he couldn't.

"God...please..." I freeze at the raspy words that reverberate through the tiny room.

Alone. I remind myself. I'm alone.

Again, I focus on him. Bare chest glistening. Thick bulge in his jeans. I feel a fire licking up my insides. I work at the buttons of my own jean shorts. But it's his expert fingers that flick them undone. It's his hands that work them open as his mouth massages my own. It's him that smirks devilish at the sight of my boner.

He's dragging his hands along my thighs. He's pressing kisses, some hard, some soft, some sweet, some bitter; to my mouth, to my jaw, to my neck, to my collar. My exposed shaft is pressing against his crotch, its rubbing against his own hard arousal. I'm finding the urges coursing my veins. When I take hold of my member, it's his hand steady and strong, that coils around it. He's dragging me out, he's drawing me in. He's kissing me senseless.

"Oh...ah...unh..."

Our bodies are lined with layers of sweat. Our skin sticks to one another, salty and sweet. He's pulling against me. He's pulling away. His rhythm is perfect. It increases quick enough to keep up the arousal, slow enough to draw me out. As only he could. As only he would. Sadistic bastard. He's whispering in my ear, in heavy gasps, _Rocket dork_.

"Ah...please...shit..."

My hand is on the wall of the stall, fingers clawing at the scratched in words. My heart is pounding in my ears. I'm gasping for air but it won't fill my lungs. His face is all I see. His eyes boring into me. His words are all I hear. _You have to tell me what you want._

"Oh shit..."

I want...

"...shit...shit...shit..."

I want...

"Oh fuck..."

I want...

"...Lars..."

It flows through me in spasms as I shudder in orgasmic release. Manage to aim most of the cum into the toilet. I'm biting my bottom lip to keep from screaming out so hard the skin splinters and trickles metallic into my mouth. There's some on my hand but so long as I don't stain my clothes I'm fine for the day. I gulp the air, sickeningly putrid, in short gasps. Try to catch my breath. My heart slows to a steadier beat. I'm leaning heavy against the cream colored stall. Exhausted and spent.

I reach for a handful of the shitty little square papers that someone, somewhere expects people to effectively use in wiping their ass. I start to clean up, remember how tenderly he did the same on Saturday. My hands are shaky. I think of his hand on my cheek, almost afraid to be there, almost afraid to pull away. I wonder where he's gone. I think of Saturday.

There's a shuffling outside the stall. I tense. Toss the papers in the toilet, hesitantly redo my pants, strain to hear. My heart is racing again. There's something bristling, unmoving in my throat. My brow is furrowed. I'm more alert than I've ever felt in my life. I tell myself, I'm alone. I'm hearing things. I'm alone.

The door squeals opens. My heart is sinking. Clatters closed. I slump against the door.

"Fuck," I growl, bury my face in open palms, mutter, "Dork."


	3. Chapter 3

_Dork_

Mr. Hubert is not Miss Palfry. He is stout and thick and balding on top. He wears brown polyester suits with plaid button down shirts. His tie is a pale yellow. His glasses are perfectly round. He stands at the front of the classroom glaring as I enter. There's a mole on the top of his head the size of a quarter. Its surrounded by liver spots.

I take my usual seat; third row, first desk.

He makes a mark on a piece of paper set squarely on top of his desk. There is nothing else. Not even a lip-stick stained coffee mug.

We are silent. Staring at one another. His mouth is a tiny dot on his face, the corners barely tugged downward to a frown. I wonder if he watches movies and eats chocolates in the teachers' lounge during one of these things. Lars would know.

The door opens. My face flushes. I keep my eyes trained forward. But it isn't him. The boy is tall with blond shaggy hair. He carries a tote bag, a worn olive green ragged thing covered in slogan pins. It smacks against his thigh with his every other step. His sneakers are white Converse high tops doodled on in colorful Sharpie pens, his blue jean pants fit snug to his slender chicken legs. His long sleeve shirt is faded blue and has the sleeves rolled up.

He pauses briefly to talk to Mr. Hubert. I don't hear their exchange though as something breezes behind me and I feel a sting at my scalp with the tug of a dread lock. From the corner of my eye I watch Lars slip into a seat a few desks away. He doesn't look at me.

The blond boy walks through the rows. He takes a desk between Lars and I. I note, too close to Lars. I realize, he's a senior. I realize, they probably know one another. Already I hate him. Lars doesn't look to the blond either and briefly, for no reason, I feel smug.

Mr. Hubert tucks his paper into a briefcase along with the pen. He takes a seat and folds his hands on the desktop, looking at us sternly.

Fuck. I don't like the newness of this whole situation.

"I do not like Saturday detentions," Mr. Hubert announces.

Welcome to the club.

"Mostly, I do not like students that are such utterly despicable human beings that they have to be punished not only with school day detentions but must also be forced to serve time during my day off, thus punishing me in the process."

I sigh, cross my arms and nestle my chin atop them, and wonder how long this tirade will take.

"Of course, I feel you little wastes of life should just be kicked out of school. Give you the time to commit the real crimes and get put in jail where you belong. Out of mine and society's hair."

What hair?

"But the school board doesn't think that's fair. Damn politics. So here we are, forced to deal with one another. This is how it is going to work. I will be on the computer, with my headphones on, enjoying my day off. You three mistakes of Planned Parenthood will do whatever the hell you want. Don't leave the room, stay near or in the desks, and don't break or light anything on fire. No, you cannot have anything to eat. No, you cannot have anything to drink. No, you cannot go to the bathroom. And no, you cannot play a video game, an iPod, send text messages, or use any digital electronic thingy of any kind for any reason whatsoever. Don't like it? Should of thought of that before you started your life of crime. Break the rules and I have wonderful morality quotes you can copy until your fingers bleed and hands spasm uncontrollably. Any questions? Good. Now leave me the hell alone."

Mr. Hubert spins to the monitor and awakens the PC. He pulls his headphones on and some online role-playing game fills the screen with flashing bright colors and sporadic animation. I don't know about the others but I'm too dumbfounded to move. I feel like its a trap. He says we can do whatever but what's to stop him from extending our detentions when we actually do?

There's a rustle of fabric and the blond is first to break the silence.

"So, I heard you threw Tucker's clothes in a can and lit them up while he was out at gym. I thought they'd suspend you for sure, man."

"They wanted to. My parents talked them out of it," Lars replies. I glance at them. The blond is turned entirely to Lars. Lars is glaring forward, cheek resting against a propped up fist.

"Well, you missed out on Trina's party. It was awesome. Probably for the best though. Drake showed."

Lars's eyes flicker to me and I straighten. My face turns away, hands clenched on my desk, focused on the class door with its less than shiny brass knob painted silver. I don't care about your conversation. I don't care who Tucker is. I don't care who Trina is. I don't care who Drake is. I don't care who the blond is. And most of all, I don't care about you. So fuck off, bastard.

The blond's desk creaks as he moves to see me.

"Hey," he calls.

Loud. This guy is way too loud. I ignore him.

"Hey!"

The desks groan as he clambers over them. He slaps my arm and I turn to fix him with a dark look that I think should aptly send my silent 'get the fuck away' message.

Lars is leaning heavily on his fist still, staring off in the distance at the bookshelves across the room. Bastard. Jerk. Asshole.

"You look like a sweet, innocent, apple-pie loving kid," blond comments.

I shrink away from his gleaming white teeth and shimmery gray eyes.

Go away. Go away. Die. Die. _Die_.

"So what'd you do to land yourself in Saturdays?"

He's everywhere, his presence is sprawling. It seeps in my skin and drapes across the room. Its pungent and rank. I'll wash and wash and never feel free of his odor.

"What's the matter, kid? No need to be scared. Lars and I don't bite."

I beg to differ.

I keep myself still. Turn away again and hope he loses interest. He doesn't. He taps on my shoulder. I grit my teeth and try to bear it. My fingers coil in a fist. Relax. Somehow I think punching the blond will be a break in Hubert's rules. I weigh the pros and cons in my mind. He continues jabbing his finger in my skin, it's starting to bruise. Writing sentences would so be worth knocking that goofy grin off blondie's face.

Blond taps the doodles on my desk top, "Did you draw this?" Say nothing. Jaw firm. He touches the heart at the top. "Aw...someone's in love. Who's M-R? Your girlfriend?"

A loud screech of a chair jolting back echoes in our ears. Blond boy stops. I tilt my head just enough to see. Lars rises from his desk. He doesn't go anywhere. He seems lost, whatever motivation he had dissipating from his body.

"Leave him alone," he mutters. He moves slow and fluid around the desks. Smirks at the blond, "I mean, shit, Todd, if I were a little kid I wouldn't want to talk to an irritating pussy like you either."

Todd. Name reminds me of a noise you'd make to insult a person's intelligence. A guffaw, a gasp, something dying. Todd. Stupid name.

"Besides, Rocket ain't as innocent as he looks." No one would know better than him.

Todd raises a brow. Looks from me to Lars. Points out the obvious, "You two know each other?"

Lars weaves around the rows and with each step closer I feel the heat rising in my body. By the time he stands over us I'm covered in flame. I don't look at him, study my hands. Chew my inner cheek until the blood seeps out. He digs into his pocket and I try not to look. His hand is too close to a part of his body I don't want to think about. As if there's a part of his body I do. He pulls something out and drops it on my desk.

A worn pack of cards. All I can think is an angry, confused 'what the fuck'?

"He's friends with my kid brother."

Easy differentiation of association. I guess it sounds better than 'I sucked him off last week'.

He spins the desk beside me around so that we are face to face. I focus entirely on the cards as he takes a seat. His hands splay casually across the table top. Slender calloused fingers. I try not to think about their feel on my skin.

Todd catches on quickly, turning his desk and inching it as close to mine as it will go. They just barely touch, a small kiss, and he plops down eagerly, dropping his tote to the floor.

I feel a warmth beneath the desks and glance forward. Lars has leaned back, stretched his legs out so that they set against my own. I note a look in his eyes, one I don't recognize in him. Almost an apology. I realize, he doesn't like this change in roster either. My stomach knots. I'm not sure it makes me happy.

I pick up the pack and empty out its contents, weed out the jokers.

Jokers.

Joke.

I suddenly feel a sense of connection with these discards. A joke? I wonder, is that what I am?

A week. I haven't seen him in a week. It's not that I really care. I didn't really want to. It was better when he was gone. But it'd be nice not to just feel like something for him to do to pass the time during detention.

God, I'm starting to think like a chic.

Fuck it. I don't care. He's something for me to do in detention, that's it. I used him. And I would use him again were this teacher and this blond asshole not here.

I never really played cards before. Too busy running rampant outdoors. I make an attempt to shuffle and it isn't pretty. Lars takes the deck, his fingers brush my hand. I hate the way I notice it. I hate the way he seems not to. I hate the way it makes me fluster. I hate the way he doesn't. Asshole.

"I wasn't going to Trina's either way," he says. Talking to Todd again. I hate it. It's not that I want him to talk to me. I just don't want him to talk at all. Then it would be like he wasn't here. Like he was gone again and I could be happy. Blissful in ignorance the way I was before.

I watch him shuffle the cards with an easy adeptness. I feel his leg against mine. It pushes into my thigh. Relaxes. Pushes again. He does these things with a nonchalance that eats at my insides. How can he be so casual? So carefree? Doesn't anything even matter to him?

"I'm done with that crowd," he continues, "All they give a shit about is what's in, what's popular, and they never stop with the gossip. Man, like I give a fuck who's fucking who. If they ain't fucking me, who cares?"

Todd sits straight-backed, feet tucked under his desk, leaned forward with his forearms on the table and hands clasped, hanging on Lars' every word. I don't get it. How can Lars stand such a leech? He sucks the air out of the room.

The cards are dealt. We're playing black jack. I know the rules but I'm not very good. I don't mean to but I start to count the cards. Two two's, one seven, a ten, a five and an ace. Another ten. An eight. Dealer bust. Next hand. A queen, a nine, a three, two Jack's, and another ace. Todd makes black jack. Twenty, I stay. Dealer hits, another eight. He stays.

"That's a push," Lars tells me, he emphasizes with his leg against mine. I grimace, nod.

I want to win. I know I can win. If only to just beat Todd.

By the time Lars reshuffles for the third time, he's won the most hands with Todd not far behind. I only win when the dealer busts.

I hate to lose. It's a sour taste under my tongue. Bitter in my throat.

"This is boring," I mutter. Lars says nothing, working on reshuffling the cards, and Todd smirks devious.

"We should play poker," he announces, then eyes Lars in a way I really don't like, "_Strip_ poker."

Lars snorts softly, doesn't look up. My hand clenches into a fist tight enough to curl skin under my nails.

"I bet Hube would want to play," Todd presses.

There's something in his words that crawls beneath my skin. It's a knowing. Like a joke between him and Lars that I'm not in on. I don't want anything between him and Lars. But then, I don't want anything between me and Lars. I just want Lars gone. I want everyone in the room gone.

And I want to crack my skateboard across Todd's face.

"He'd probably cheat," Lars mutters, sliding the deck back in his pocket and tugging out a black pen. He motions to me, commands, "Give me your hand."

I eye him suspiciously but the warmth of his leg leaves for a moment and I want it back. I plop the requested limb down as though petulant.. He shifts forward, one hand clenching my wrist. The point of the pen scratches and tickles uncomfortably, but I'm too concentrated on Lars. His eyes are narrowed on his work, his lips pressed into a thin line, his brow drawn together. His other hand, the rough finger tips, trace circles on my skin.

I've never before found a similarity between him and his brother until that moment. There is this distance in them. A faraway in their looks and demeanor. A way that makes me feel even if I touched them I could never reach them. But for a second, a split of a second, they snap into place. They are near. A hairsbreadth away. They are more in the moment than anyone else. They are understanding itself. The air bends and sways at their will.

I see in the kohl of his eyes the copper of his brother's.

I haven't spoken to his brother in days, too busy repenting for sins I didn't and a few I did commit. I saw him the other day skateboarding with Sam. He seemed sluggish. Beefed hard. Fat prude Sam didn't laugh. Didn't even crack a smile. I would have laughed. I silently begged Sam to. He needed it. He needed someone to laugh when he fell. It reminded him to laugh. But Sam didn't, said something instead, and my best bro only frowned and responded.

Todd is talking, "I guess you're right about Trina and them. You should have heard them talk about what you did to Tuck. Nonstop. They kept saying they weren't impressed but you could tell they totally were, man."

"Didn't do it to impress anyone," Lars mutters distractedly and I know he didn't. I squirm slightly as the pen cuts a little deep into my skin. He glances me. Smirks. Ever the sadist. It warms my cheeks and dizzies my mind. I think this emotion swirling round my head is anger...I'm starting to lose certainty.

"Why did you burn his clothes?" the question is out before I realize I've asked it. The pen has stopped, dark eyes meeting mine, and Todd stares interestedly at Lars awaiting answer.

The silence draws out too long. I don't like it. Lars is squeezing my arm. Pinching but not painful. He loosens his grip. Returns to drawing. I realize in that instant, he doesn't even know why he committed his crime. I wonder if anyone does.

Thoughtfully, he says, "So that he knew I could."

There's a danger in him that makes me want to pull away. I lean forward, peer over his shoulder. His scent overwhelms me, makes my head swirl. I force my focus on his work. A swirling pattern of black and the natural brown of my skin. Just another of his marks to add to the quickly fading bruises and hickies.

When he finishes the drawing he doesn't let go of my hand right away. He traces his thumb over the black marks etched in my flesh. Its a nice design. I think I wouldn't mind if it were permanent. Todd is laughing, I think at something he said, but I'm not listening to him. Lars turns my hand over, quickly scrawls something in the palm then lets me go and leans back in his chair, hands in pockets, attention fully on Todd.

I lower my hand beneath the desk and stare at the words he's written there.

_Four hours._

I fold my arms again and lay my head down on my desk. Listen to the two talk about people I don't know and have never heard of and things that have happened that will never effect me. Listen to Mr. Hubert clicking at the mouse and clacking at the keyboard. Listen to my own shallow breath.

Lars's leg is leaned heavy against mine, warm. I realize, I'm comfortable like this. I could fall asleep to the sound of his voice, to the feel of his skin beside me. So I close my eyes and let myself drift.

A tug of my dreadlock arouses me and I let the world in slowly. There's a scraping of desks being put back in place, a commotion of bodies eager to move after hours spent still. The room is dark. Mr. Hubert leads out the door, Todd and Lars follow still chatting about things I know nothing of. I shuffle after them, my pack on my shoulder, my eyes limp. My body is cold and longing. When we exit the building, the sunlight scalds my vision.

There's a pressure on my wrist. It brings me to a halt. I see Mr. Hubert heading for teacher parking. Todd is jogging down the front stairs. Lars is beside me. He releases his hold on me, heads to the back of the school and after a heartbeat I follow. Across the cracked pavement and through the thick water hungry bushes.

My back is against a wall suddenly, my head connects with a smack, but Lars' mouth against mine seems far more important than the sudden ringing in my ears. His hands grip my shoulders holding me in place but the firmness of his body pressed against mine does the job well enough alone.

I sink too eagerly for my liking into his kiss, arms wrap about his waist, and push into his teeth and tongue. We part breathless. His face lingers next to mine, trailing kisses along my jaw line. Something about the gentle action aches inside me in a way I can't explain and I need him to be harsh and rough again.

"Where have you been?" I didn't intend to say the words aloud but they echo in my mind even as they drift away on the harsh wind. He smiles against my skin, sinks his teeth into my ear lobe, and I can't help the low murmur that it draws from my throat.

"Do you always worry this much?" he whispers teasingly. My head hot from the hormones sends my temper flaring and I push him away more haughtily than I meant.

"I'm not worried," I growl. Thoughts I don't recognize flicker over his eyes. He looks away from me. I push the dreads from my face and shake my head at the ground. He runs a hand over the back of his neck and dark strands wisp into his face.

Everything, I realize, everything is so naturally chaotic between us.

"Otto..." he starts.

I feel a tightening in my chest. There are thousands of questions, each one more pressing, more stressing, more perilous, more potentially damaging than the last. I need the answers, their ripping me apart inside.

"Fuck, Lars." Whatever he wants to say, I can't hear it. The sound of his voice is too abrasive, nails on chalkboard, I can't stand it. It shivers up my spine.

"Yeah." He agrees to my sentiment of nothing at all.

We fall quiet, stand separate from one another. I've never felt colder. The winds howl, shake the prawns of nearby towering palms trees. They line the walkways around our school, typical southern California décor. I study our sneakers. They are similar, dark colored skater shoes, rough and ragged from hard wear. How is it this person is so familiar yet so strange?

I think of Todd's Converses. How are they so different yet so familiar?

"Hey."

I startle. His forehead touches mine, a kiss of skin. I search his eyes. They are dark. Plagued with so many emotions; some I recognize, most I'm afraid to.

"Don't think about it."

I smile. It feels forced. I lean forward, press my mouth to his and let them rest against one another. Comfortable. Soft. A perfect fit. We stand for a heartbeat. Two. Three. He moves his bottom lip. I pull away.

"I hate..." I falter.

_You_.

"What?" he murmurs, uncertain, "You hate...what?"

I sample a taste of him again. Let it linger in my mouth.

"I just hate..." It sticks in my throat.

_This._

I tuck my face into his collar. Immerse myself in his scent. I feel so suddenly weak. He runs a hand along my arm, caught between pushing me closer and pulling me away. Beneath his skin, beneath my cheek, I can feel his blood pulsing through his veins and in it I suddenly feel connected, a part of him.

"When you're gone," I mutter. I pull away and lean hard my back against the brick wall and, with all my strength and will power, glare up at him petulantly, "It pisses me off. I hate it."

He smirks at me and falls forward as though suddenly relieved of a great burden, crashing our mouths together hard. He says, his body melded against mine once more, "Come with me somewhere."

"...right now?" I don't like the fear in my tone or how easily he catches on to it.

"Don't worry, I won't hurt you." He nips my lobe and his hot breath wets my skin, "...much."

"But I'm grounded."

God. Why do I always have to sound like such a fucking child?

He points out, his voice low and, I notice, it suddenly catches, "What does that matter? You can't get in anymore trouble than you're already in."

He takes a step back and my skin prickles ice. Our eyes lock and his expression digs into my chest. His teeth tease his bottom lip, blossoms them a deeper rouge and I long to taste them again. He sees my eyes lingering, lusting, and smirks.

"Dork." Biting challenge. I fluster. Bastard. He knows I can't resist a challenge. "What have you got to lose?"

* * *

A Quick Side Note: I know how this story ends. It will have several chapters. As to whether those chapters will be written and with what frequency uploaded, I don't know. I was kind of disapointed with this chapter, mainly because Lars was in it but he didn't take his shirt off. Next chapter, I promise, will have hot, sweaty boy on boy sex.

Another Side Note: I think this is my new favorite couple in the entire fan-verse.


	4. Chapter 4

A thank you to the reviewers: I appreciate your taking the time to comment and giving me a reason to continue writing this. I know its not an overly popular story but I like it, I love the couple, and it warms my heart to know that there are others who feel the same. Thank you.

A Warning: This chapter contains explicit language and a severly graphical description of sexual act between two young boys - teenagers I should say...If this is not something that you would like to read than I wonder...how did you get to this chapter? Also, tender...dare I say 'romantic' moments between the same two boys.

* * *

**Dork**

There is something foreign about being alone with Lars outside of school.

We are in his car; a rundown, decades old Hondai that smells of stale weed. The floor in the back is littered with surfboard wax, a broken skateboard, a bundle of clothes, and old fast food packaging. Draped across the seat is a blanket and I don't dwell on why.

We have been driving for nearly half an hour now and Ocean Shores is long since faded in his rear view. There is no traffic and we are speeding along a winded highway, the horizon nothing but a stretch of blue on my side.

His radio plays low, a mix CD of artists I don't recognize with sultry voices and soft tones. I watch the way he drives. Leaned back far into his seat, eyes distant, one hand casually perched on top the steering wheel and the other forlorn along his thigh.

I realize there is something different in his demeanor, not just from our childhood but from the Saturday before. It is a quiet, a calm, that has been with him all day. If he is the ocean, than he is now the evening tide washing in on a clear night and I long to take a dip in him.

I flush at the thought. Turn my eyes away to watch the beach roll by.

"Where are we going?"

He stirs a bit, startled by my voice, I think. We've been silent the whole ride.

Oddly, it was...nice. Not unsettling as I would've long ago imagined.

"Somewhere..." he murmurs vaguely.

My bag lays against my leg under the dashboard. Inside of it my cellphone is ringing for the third time. I don't bother looking at the caller. It's my father, Raymundo. The harsh beat of my ringtone clashes with his serene music. The landscape is changing now, large green cliffs jut up and out to block the ocean view.

"You wanted to know. Where I've been," he says conversationally.

I don't respond. Glance him from the corner of my eye and glare at the rising emerald terrain.

He pulls off the road suddenly and I grip the seat in surprise. He smirks at me and I settle, shake my head annoyed. Through the greenery there is a hidden road. He steers us along it far into a crevice in the rock face. He slows to a stop and puts on the brakes, kills the engine, kicks open his door and fixes me with a hard look. My expression is bewildered.

"We have to walk from here. There's a bit of climbing too. Can you manage?"

Underlining his tone is that usual acidic jeer that eats away under my skin. I scowl at him.

"Anything you can."

He smirks at me and there is a change in his voice that warms my body and stirs emotion.

"Remember you said that."

He ducks from the car and starts hiking towards the rising summit. I follow him with my eyes a moment, let the boil in my blood cool to a simmer, then pull myself out and jog after him.

The walk is long and the climb hard. We scramble over sharp rocks, damp from humidity and ocean spray. I slip a few times, tumble once, scraping my knee, and get caught in the brambles. He pauses to laugh and I glare hard at him. When he offers help I growl at him, make a smart comment, and push on determined.

Moments later, he shakes his head at me when I've caught up again; bloodied, bruised, and out of breath.

"Dork."

"Shut up."

I wait impatiently as he inspects a cut on my arm dripping blood in large splatters to the rock ground.

"Not much further," he says.

And its a lie.

We walk for several more minutes over more harsh terrain, but our climb has sloped downward. Then the landscape opens up. A pearl white beach spreads out before us, salty mist sprays my face, and anticipatory adrenaline kicks through my system on overdrive at the taste. I haven't been so close to the beach in weeks, the need to feel ocean is like an addiction withdrawl.

We stand in a small, secluded cove. The only sign of humanity is a small shack and a bon fire pit beside it. The winds are harsh and there is gray in the distance.

Lars plods across the sand towards the shoreline, his sneakers swallowed whole with each step in crystalline grain. He motions towards the shack and calls over his shoulder, "There's a first aid kit inside. If you want it."

I glance to the building. The wood is weather worn, polished like driftwood. It sits on stilts, a few stairs lead up to its entry. Its door doesn't seem to fit in the frame. I vaguely wonder at its age then head for the water also.

He sits close to the tide edge, leans back, palms digging into the sand and stares out into the distance. I stop, stand over him. The sun is already blistering my bare skin. Our clothes stick to our bodies, slick with sweat from the hike.

"How did you find this place?" I ask.

He doesn't answer for a long time. His hair tousles in the wind, flickers round his terse features and I fight the sudden urge to reach out and attempt taming the strands.

"Drake."

I shudder, the breeze an icy bite against the perspiration. I remember the name. I want to ask but something in me, some unfamiliar ache in my chest, causes me to hesitate. So we are silent, watching the clouds gather on the horizon.

I push my shoes off suddenly and peel my shirt away. He darts a look up to me but says nothing.

"There's a bouy," I note. I see it bobbing with the waves, maybe forty meters or so out, like a splash of red paint on a deep blue canvas.

He nods.

"Want to race?"

He shrugs. Pulls his shoes off with a finger and says with that leer that pricks my nerves, "More like I'll swim and you can attempt to keep up."

I roll my eyes.

We glide through the water with natural ease. I wish for a board beneath my body, let the water course around me and revel in its chilly embrace. Like a pair of razors, we slice through the waves, and its not clear who reaches the bouy first. We drape ourselves across from one another on the rim of the red float catching our breath, the water slaps together and hits us every so often in the face with sharp spray.

He eyes me, smiles and I imagine its how the devil would smile. Then he slips under the water, and I wait a few heartbeats until he resurfaces. He swims back towards the shore and, reluctantly, I follow. By the time I reach the sand, he's collapsed, sitting on the ground again. I sit beside him, knock the clinging grit from my legs.

My scrapes are running diluted blood now, thin red lines dripping down my arm and from my knee. They sting. My chest convulses for air. My muscles are constricted from the cold. I feel alive.

"It's too bad," I murmur, "That we don't have boards."

He nods.

I wrap my arms around myself. Shivers ripple my skin. I stretch for my crumpled shirt. I feel his eyes on me and pause, glance to him. He looks away, a strange emotion flickering his features.

"Otto..." he falters. Shakes his head and glares at the distance.

I frown. "It's going to rain."

He nods.

"We should probably get back. I bet Raymundo is pissed."

Again, he nods. I realize he isn't really listening to me.

"I guess that wouldn't matter to you..."

"It gets hard," he says. The words are out of place and I make a face.

"What...?"

"Being around you." He looks at me, those dark eyes searching mine, "That's why...part of why I'm gone. It isn't easy, is all."

The admission hurts. I turn away. Ball my hands up and hate the swirl of thoughts roiling round my head. I think of a thousand things to say, each more biting than the last.

His hand is on my shoulder suddenly, firm, and he pushes me back into the sand. His body settles over mine, a dead weight, and he crushes our mouths together, a bruising kiss. When we part I gasp for breath. He dives his face down, catches my neck in his teeth and works the skin raw, sucking and massaging with his tongue. It draws from me a low, guttural noise and I squeeze my eyes shut and dig my nails into his sides.

I can't understand. If he hates being around me. If he hates it so much he avoids me.

"I want you." His mouth brushes against my tender skin, his voice is throaty.

I don't know how to respond. My head is still in the water, sluicing the tumultuous waves.

I net my hand across the back of his neck, my thumb traces the contour of his ear. I lead him up to another kiss, our lips open and tongues meet. He grinds his hips down and I feel his forming erection, it bulges against my own. I whimper and moan, my legs feel weak.

His kisses are rough. His hard on rocks against my own, it sends electric chills along my spine. His hand slides down my thigh, beneath my wet shorts, and cups my buttocks, squeezes. I trace my fingers along his shoulder blades, rake them down to leave lines red as sin.

My thumbs rub circles on his sharply pointed nipples, and he thrusts his pelvis down jarringly hard, buries his face in my neck, his hair splays in my face and tendrils stick to my damp lips, and he moans ecstatic.

I flush at the noise but swell proud. He's not the only one that can cause those sounds.

Then the world lights and there is a drum of thunder. Warm fat drops of rain fall from the sky and pierce our skin, send the sand splattering in all directions. We break apart.

"Shit."

He grabs my arm and drags me from the sand, we're rushing now. I can barely see through the warm haze. I'm shoved inside the shack, its rickety door slams behind him. I'm laughing, loud and breathless, and I don't know why.

The shack is mostly empty, it looks like an abandoned lifeguard post. There is an old desk with a few drawers, a sea chart, a metal box attached to one wall labeled first aid. In the far corner is a molded blanket and a scatter of melted candles.

He loops a few fingers in the band of my shorts, tugs me forward, and we meld together. He pushes the soaked dreads from my face with a large hand – how did his hands get so large? - and presses a kiss to my mouth.

"I want you," he repeats. Hands on my shoulders, he pushes me back, stares imploring in my eyes.

I realize, at some point, the tables turned, that now he is searching for my approval. I smirk, cruel, and snap challenge, "Then do something about it."

He lowers his eyes, shakes his head, "You don't understand..."

I step forward, slide my hands down his pants, splay my fingers across his butt cheeks, draw him forward to a harsh, teeth clacking kiss, that ends nibbling his bottom lip. There is a rumble of pleasure in the back of his throat, it heats me inside out.

And Sam said I would learn nothing from watching porn.

Lars grins against my mouth. He engulfs me, mouth and tongue and teeth connected, walks us back until my legs slam hard against the desk. He undoes my shorts, peels them away until they fall to the ground and I kick them aside, a sopping mess.

I stand naked before him now but only have a moment to be self-conscious about it as his eyes sweep over my drenched form. He's kissing me again and he draws my hands to his own shorts and I work at them. My fingers tremble, anxious at the thought of his unclothed body. After a few fretful kisses, he grows impatient with my fumbling, unclasps the shorts and they slide away.

Inside I am a child, vulnerable and lost. I don't know what to do, where to move, what to touch or what not to. I can feel his bare cock, hard and hot, against my own, and his thick pubic hair bristles my skin.

I trace his chest, the muscles tense, the bones of his hips are neatly formed. Exposed, our bodies are equally rough and scarred. Battle wounds from pavement wars. I run my fingers along a silver split across his belly and it falls to just above his thigh. He's watching me and I blush. He pushes away the dreads, kisses my temple.

"You're hairs gotten long," he notes, so quiet I can barely hear. He toys with a dread, "You ever thought of cutting these."

I say nothing. It isn't really a question.

"Because you shouldn't," he whispers. He smiles, hands on my shoulders, kisses my lips, then my jaw, down along my neck and up to my ear. He grips the lobe teasingly in his teeth. Tells me, "Turn around."

Without knowing why, I obey. I face the desk, tense my body and study the wood grain running across its top. His arm wraps my waist, I think, strangely protective and he bites into my shoulder, suckles it a moment, then lets go. I can feel his hard on at my backside, it engorges my own.

"Don't move," he murmurs. He keeps a hand on my hip and I shudder with each brush and jab of his erection. I can't understand how I'm already so close to the edge, I'm ready to burst at any moment.

Fuck.

Why is he taking so long?

I watch him open one of the drawers, though I can't really see its contents, he takes something out, returns to brush my dreads aside and clamps his mouth round my neck, leans me forward so that I have to balance against the tabletop. I let out an involuntary moan, I feel the curl of his lips in that sneering smile.

He catches one of my hands, laces our fingers and brings my palm to my own dick, throbbing painfully with want. Strokes it.

I shudder.

Whimper, "Don't."

"Why not?" he replies, familiar cruelty in his words as he licks from my collar up my neck to my jawline. "It probably hurts...don't you want to give it a little...release?"

"I...I...ah.."

Again, he guides my hand along my erection. I murmur, press back into him, and my body weakens at the feel of his own erection. I'm trapped between sensual desire.

"Fuck..." I gasp. He continues stroking, moves our hands in a steady rhythm, increasing the beat but drawing it out, taking his time as always. His other hand runs over my chest, finds my nipple and gives it a pinch. I cry out unbidden, arch my head back, jolted by the touch. "God..."

"Dammit...you're already close to done," he whispers, kissing every available inch of my flesh, "You have to hold on, just a little..."

He takes his hand away, leaves mine to work at my own erection.

"Take it slow," he advises, "Don't let it out." His hands grip my hips, draws my butt back, leans me forward more. I can't concentrate, my one hand masturbates, the other holds me up. My knees are weak.

I hear a click and then the slurp of a bottle squirting. It is a noise alone enough to push me over, though I can't think why or what exactly it will be for. I wonder, for a heartwrenching moment, how he knows all of what to do in this situation. I quickly push the question from my mind. It's too much to think of him pinned in someone else's embrace, his body flush as he touches himself like I do now.

"Oh...fuck...fuck, fuck, fuck..."

"Hold on..." his words are a rush, his breath is harsh, "Just hold it in...it'll be better...if you just wait."

Then his finger touches inside me, all at once cold and warm, and I nearly lose it. I clasp the desk top hard enough to blanch my knuckles, forget to jerk myself.

"Shit...shit..." I hate the sound of my voice. Pitched and quivering. Another finger dips inside, he's working me open. I feel moisture along the rim and squishing inside.

God, I wish he would hurry.

"Fuck," he says, and there's less of a strength in his tone than I thought before, "Stop making those sounds...you're gonna put _me_ over..."

He leans onto me, kisses my shoulder. There are three fingers in now. My head is light, the room is spinning. I move my hand against my cock, but its slow and no longer steady. My cock throbs with the need for release.

"Lars...I need to..."

"Just hold it."

"I can't..." I moan.

"What's the matter, Rocket dork?" He teases. His words teeter, "I thought you had better stamina than that."

"Fuck you," I spit, then jolt when he widens me further. "Ahh...goddammit...god...Lars...fuck..."

"Almost..." he whispers, concentrated now, "Almost...hold on...this...it's going to hurt, Otto..."

He sounds genuinely concerned and it clenches on my heart. I bite my lower lip, chew it until I taste blood. The way my name sounds on his tongue is vile.

It's wretched.

It's disgusting.

An insult.

I hate it.

I want him to say it again.

"Don't...don't..." I gasp and I feel him paralyzed behind me. Why am I always the one begging? I thought I was above this, why am I still always kneeling in front of this arrogant bastard, "...don't...stop...please, don't stop, Lars..."

His teeth rake my shoulder blade. He enters, sure and fast. The pain is intense, blinding white. But it's a strange and different pain than any I've ever experienced, like a fire licking inside me, I subconsciously push towards it. He thrusts, and the immense pressure courses more blood to my pulsating cock.

"Ahh...ah...shit...shit..."

One sinewy arm is wrapped tight round me, taking the hand on my hard on again and jerking with it. The other sits, hand on my hip, moves me expertly in time with the rock of his own pelvis. We gain momentum, I hear his breath shallow and quick in my ear.

"Oh...god...damn..." He murmurs against my flesh; kisses, bites, pushes in and strokes back.

I squeeze my eyes tightly shut. It's all I can do to keep the world from slipping out from under me.

"Otto..."

"Lars, please," I whimper, the feeling coursing through me is overwhelming, I can't control it, "I can't...just please...harder..."

He's picking up speed. His thrusts are violent now, I feel them ripping through me.

"Ah...God...Otto..."

His breath is a sharp intake, he's grunting and moaning.

"Lars...just, fuck...please. Harder...please..."

I can't hear the noises I make, so consumed by the euphoria of his own, but he can hear me and he reacts.

"Otto..."

"Lars..." I gasp, "I can't hold...I'm cum...I'm..."

"Otto...say it."

He's near the edge too. I hear it in his voice and there's something about knowing that changes the feeling in me. Somehow its more intense, more stirring, just...more

"Say it, Otto." He shouts.

"Lars...fuck, fuck, fuck...I'm...I'm cu...I'm cumming..."

We shudder orgasm together. I feel him flood inside me, a rush of thick, warm, liquid. It causes me to fluster. Our cries of pleasure echo in my mind.

For a time after we are spent, he holds me, inside me, both arms wrapped tight round me. In that moment, everything feels so clear. Suddenly, I realize, everything I have known to be important, to be beautiful, to be pure or innocent or wonderful were all wrong.

It is only this.

This one singular moment, breathless and flushed, and molded as one with this one singular person. This is the only thing important, the only beautiful, pure, innocent, wonderful thing in the world. Just this moment.

When he pulls away, I fall to my knees. Sticky and dripping with cum and sweat and saliva. I am shaking and desperate for air. I feel raw and immobile. I think I may never be able to walk again.

A few heartbeats thrum, and I feel him beside me. He brushes the dreadlocks, matted to my body, away from my face and brushes his lips to my neck, buries his face there, sore from all his attentions. There is something in this action that confuses me, that aches inside of me, that breaks into my deepest yearnings and riles emotions I haven't felt in years and didn't really understand then either.

"Next time," he confesses, absently entwining our fingers, "I want to see your face."

* * *

Quick Author Confession: I wanted to rush this chapter because I've been planning out this scene for a terribly long time and I really hope it came out as hot and passionate as I envisioned it in my mind.


	5. Chapter 5

Finally decided to finish writing this chapter, took a lot different turn than I thought it would. Its very short, not really all that sweet, but necessary. This chapter marks a turning post in the story, things are about to become more dramatic and a lot more angsty.

* * *

_Dork_

My sister is tall, broad shouldered and slender waisted. Her hair falls in corkscrews down her back. Her skin is just as dark as mine, her eyes a softer brown. She stands in my doorframe, glaring down her broad nose at me. She's wearing my old shirt and boxers stolen from the latest boyfriend.

I stare at my ceiling, lay strewn across my bed. Feel her stare, twin laser points drilling holes into my languished body.

"Raymundo is _so_ gonna kick your ass when he gets home," she comments gleefully.

I don't reply. My sister, Queen of Obvious. She smelled the ocean on me when I came home, knew where I had been and where I hadn't, and wouldn't leave me alone with it. Nosy bitch.

Seven. There were seven missed calls on my cell when I returned to Ocean Shores. Five from my father, apparently his limit. One half-hearted from my sister. One from Sam, who also left a voice mail I didn't bother listening to. Just deleted it as Lars curiously watched me in his peripheral.

I close my eyes. Rub my face with an open palm. He dropped me off behind the school. Stood leaned against his car, arms folded, as I limped awkwardly around.

_It's going to hurt..._he had warned in that rundown, abandoned lifeguard post. I wish I had understood the full extent of that statement.

We parted with a simple, lingering kiss.

_Next time_, he had said. I wonder when that will be. Shamefully, I hope soon.

The bed creaks and bends under a new weight, and I feel the cool brush of skin against the rawest part of my neck. Blood furiously fills my cheeks. How many hours have passed since his mouth worked that spot to a delicate bloom of purple and pink?

"So who were you with?" My sister demands. I peek at her. She sits with her legs up on my bed, folded at the ankles, back resting against the headboard. She looks upset, her mouth tight, her brow drawn together; but her eyes quiver concern.

"No one," I respond, fling my arm over my face to block out the light and her worrisome expression.

She's only two years my senior, I don't need her mother henning. I remember then, one more year and she'll be gone. I wonder if I'm sad about it. I realize, one more year and he'll be gone. I wonder if she has Lars in any classes. I think about asking her. Decide against it.

"Really?" she persists, "Then what? A jellyfish gave you the hickey?"

"...yeah. Sure."

"Must've stung your mouth, too, it looks pretty red and swollen."

I bring my fingers to my lips, trace their contour. They feel awesomely sore. All of my body feels sore; torn apart and ripped into. I smirk to myself. Wonder what she would say if she saw beneath my clothes the other marks he'd left me.

She shifts. Sighs.

"Rocket boy," she mutters in that maternal way I've always hated.

God, why couldn't I have a real sister, one that said her snotty piece then walked away? Why did she have to be more friend than sibling?

I grunt response.

"I know you better than anyone."

Actually, there's one person who may know me better. Definitely, _physically_, knows me better. I shudder. Bring my hand up under my shirt and trace the bite marks on my shoulder.

"I know you're lying. And that you're hiding something." She takes my hand, the one strewn over my face, fiddles with my fingers. Her voice is soft. Shy. "You know...you can tell me anything."

My stomach crawls to my feet. My mind takes a dive.

Anything. Anything is a dangerously broad word. It can encompass just about...everything.

And I most definitely cannot tell her everything. There are things she shouldn't know. Things she wouldn't want to know. Things that if she knew, she would never, ever, look at me the same again.

No, I realize sadly, I can't tell her anything. And I think that there is no truer evidence of our growth from child to adulthood than that.

"There's nothing to tell," I say. She'll know I'm lying so I give her fingers a small squeeze to let her know that it isn't out of anger. She sighs, lets the moment pass in silence. Then she releases my hand, and her weight lifts from the bed with a moan of protest from the mattress springs.

"I'm going to start dinner," she announces. I don't miss the distance in her voice. Sadly I think she must have realized how far apart we are now too. I hear her leave the room. The third step of our stairs creaks. She's gone.

I look to the ceiling, think of what it would be to tell her everything. After all, what are sisters for if not to support you in the strangest parts of life?

I imagine going downstairs, saying to her: _You really want to know who I was with? It was Lars. Lars Rodriguez. You know, the ass-hat mongoloid brother of my best bro. Come on...you remember, he treated us like shit all through childhood. Beat me and Twist up on a regular basis? We all hated him. Yeah...well, I was with him on the beach...making out...having passionate sex...we've been doing this lately and it's been…interesting._

The silence would be devastating. The thought alone is enough to cause my ears to ring and my head to swim dangerously in the deep end.

I sit up on the bed and prepare myself for a trek downstairs. I figure I might as well offer to help my sister cook dinner. Not that she would take the help. Not that I'd be much help.

The blood rushes to my head as I stand and I grip the mattress for support. Suddenly, surely, reality cuts across my mind and I feel bile climbing my throat.

Lars Rodriguez. I've been having sex with Lars Rodriguez.

It thunders my ears, stings my eyes.

Shattering realization, calamitous and bittersweet. I have no voice. No words to speak. The earth between myself and everyone I know and love has splintered and cracked and now there is an uncrossable gorge separating us.

I stumble into my bathroom, fall to my knees and let everything out into the unforgiving porcelain bowl. The few former contents of my stomach float up, glare at me, an odiferous reminder that there are things in this world I had once and can never, ever have again.

_Sister, forgive me._

Unbidden, I spew again. Everything inside of me is clawing its way out. Tears roll down my cheeks. My body trembles. I grip the toilet seat. Dry heave.

_I know not what I do_.

I fall back against the tile; stare at the ceiling as the bitter taste of vomit remnant sulks on my tongue.

_I can't be that boy you knew anymore. The one with the sun in his eyes, the world at his fingertips_

My body is cold. I'm convulsing with chill. That warmth Lars put in me has turned now to ice. I have never felt more alone, more wretched, more despicable, more revolting.

_I don't even recognize myself anymore._

I lay my palm over my eyes; smear the wetness across my face. Sobs struggle against my stubborn, boyish desire to not cry. They choke out of my throat, a pathetic low whimper that turns torrential, wracking my body with harsh revolt.

I'm lost to my sorrow now.

God, I'm such a dork.

I wrap my arms around my bruised and battered body, glare at the ceiling with its stark white façade of purity as boiling hot tears stream freely, soak my face with a saltiness like the ocean.

I hate him.

I hate him so much.

How could he do this to me? How could I let him?

That bastard. That fucking bastard.

He's taken everything from me and perverted it.

He's taken my voice. He's taken my words. He's quaked the earth and ripped it open before me.

I hate him.

I hate him so much.

God, I wish he was here with me.

* * *

Initially an earlier chapter I rewrote featured Reggie, but I didn't like that presentation of her character as I felt it didn't pay a true enough tribute to the depth of the relationship between the Rocket siblings. I hope this does a better justice to their relationship's dynamic from the show.

I feel I should also clarify in the end part, Otto is NOT suddenly feeling regret for his recent trysts with Lars. He is simply starting to realize the possible consequences of his actions: that the intimate enounters between he and Lars stands to alter significantly his relationships with just about *everyone* in his life.


	6. Chapter 6

Reread over last chapter...I really shouldn't write when I'm hungover. Oh well, Otto's general feelings in that chapter are important. These past two chapters were difficult to write. The next one will come easier.

* * *

_Dork_

There is no more suffocating a place to be than the tiny waiting area in the school's front office outside the dean's door. The air is thin. The dim, false light that drifts thickly from the overhead iridescent bulbs wraps around and presses into me, constricting. I'm not designed to be indoors, I'm not meant to be confined to small places, with an atmosphere so effervescently overloaded it should have its own musical score of easy listening.

Two women and a man in stiffly starched business casual outfits bustle around me pretending to be busy. They work in a high school office, there's only so much filing to be done. I gave one, I think the woman in red with a bouffant hairstyle, my dean summons, a tiny pink slip of paper. She told me to sit, magicked away the summons, and eased into a natural state of ignoring me. I don't let it bother me. Two can play at that game. Or four, I suppose, would be more accurate.

So there we all are, four people suffocating in the same room – because I know by their expressions that they're just as desperate for air as I am, pretending the others don't exist.

I'm sitting in a chair, the fourth in a row of six. It is gray and stiff and poorly padded. I swear, it was originally designed as an instrument of torture. I cannot lean back in it, I cannot lean forward. It pinches into my back and creaks with my every shift and shuffle, earning me accusatory glares from the office staff.

Oh yeah? Fuck you all too. It's their chair, I'm just sitting in it.

I sigh and pick at the lint on my sweatshirt. There's one day left. I've been tracking my position in time according to how far away I am from Saturday. My stomach cinches. I squeeze my eyes shut to filter out the sudden flow of emotion into the outside world.

_Three hours_.

In three hours, the final school bell will ring and another day will be gone, another barrier blocking my path.

I drift and linger languidly on a beautiful white beach far off the beaten path, a long and bruising hike from a hidden pull-off on the distant road. Rain is pummeling the sand and I am blistering heat in the sinewy arms of a damp lover. I catch my breath, hold it hostage a heartbeat or two, and release it hesitantly.

I haven't seen Lars since last Saturday.

The lust thrumming throughout my veins is nothing compared to the ache in my chest. I've decided it's his own unique way of tormenting me. Gives me a fleeting moment of fervent ecstasy then fades into the hidden recesses of my mundane life. God, he's such a prick.

I'm desperate for tomorrow. I think it will be the day I finally punch him in the face. Maybe on the lip, let it swell, then gnaw it raw.

I flush from my abdomen up, hurry the thought out of my mind.

The door of the dean's office opens. I glance it disinterested. Sam exits and I arch a brow. He darts a look my way. There is emotion flickering there, in shimmering blue eyes behind glass lenses flashing a glare of light, that I am afraid to read. He ducks his head – shame halos his features – and rushes past me out of the office. My heart rakes claws along the cavity of my inner chest. I feel nauseous. My jaw clenches and my pulse quickens. A terrible thing is happening.

The dean looks at me expectant. She ushers me into her office. I rise slowly from the rigid, gray chair. My feet carry me mindlessly across the floor. I don't even feel as though I'm walking, I feel as if I am floating, gliding, as if through a dream.

I remember the office. I've been there many times since starting high school and it never changes. A large oak desk takes up the bulk of the room. Its top neatly organized, five gold framed pictures in the far right corner, a decades old computer buzzing in the left, a steel-mesh pencil holder most likely bought from Wal-Mart and carefully filled with twenty-seven perfectly matched black pens, a stack of papers with an almost deliberately disheveled appearance, and a gold plaque that reads: Hilda Mouser – Dean of Students. Behind the desk is a cabinet, a two-decades old printer, more framed pictures – fourteen to be exact, and a high-backed, black, fluffy chair. In front of the desk are two plush, red chairs, pointedly smaller in size than the one behind the desk.

I take what I said earlier back. There is no more suffocating a place to be than _this room_.

"Take a seat, Mister Rocket," Dean Mouser commands. There is something in the way she says 'mister' that feels so very emasculating. The oxygen drags from my lungs and hangs explosive in the air. I move forward and plop into the plush chair. She waddles around the desk and eases into her own seat.

Dean Mouser is a stern-faced woman. The lines of her expression appear carved out of granite. Her frown is pronounced, her eyes droop slightly, three deeply engraved wrinkles dip across her forehead, the crows feet around her eyes scatter haphazard and catch the granules of her mineral foundation like tiny nuggets of gold embedded in the vein of a mine. Her body is bulky, her gargantuan breasts rest heavily over her bulging belly fat. Her large lips are just as crinkled as her aged face, and the dried and cracked crimson rouge of her lipstick accentuates their uneven texture. Her skin is a dark mocha color, her eyes a sullied copper, her flat-ironed raven hair frames her round, pudgy face in a classic bob.

She folds her hands atop the desk and sets her gaze on me. I slump over my knees, stare up at her with an expression I hope is not the least bit guilty looking. Overhead, I hear her fancy, brass clock tick away the seconds.

"I heard an interesting story today," she begins.

I bite back my instinctively sarcastic response. There is a way that my mouth betrays me, speaking without warning things that bypass my mind and head straight for my tongue. It happens more often than I like in front of people with the authority to take my freedom away.

"One of your fellow classmates, one I trust to be forthright and honest, informed me that you were not the one responsible for the disruption of the Choir and Orchestra's assembly at the beginning of this month."

My stomach drops clear through to the floor. I can only stare, blank-faced and paralyzed, at Dean Mouser's mouth as it moves open and closed, making recognizable, yet, meaningless sounds. The room is spinning, a swirl of gold and black. A thought fortifies itself against my dissolving mental stability: _Sam is _dead.

"I was also informed that you are aware of the identities of the real perpetrators of the disruption and that they may be threatening you with violence, Mister Rocket, to keep their identities a secret and suffer their punishment for them."

Dean Mouser purses her lips, leans the bulk of her weight across the desk's edge, balances it on her forearms. Her eyes burrow into mine, searching the inner workings of my mind.

I realize after a prolonged series of seconds – during which my blood is replaced with liquid ice – that she is waiting for my response. The muscles of my throat clamp together, a vice on my voice. I make a noise, non-committal, a croak like the heartfelt trumpet of a crushed frog.

She draws her breath in through her nostrils and lets it out in one gush. She straightens a bit, shifts the weight of her breast off the desk and pulls them up with her haggard shoulders. She shuffles the papers around on her desk, finds a tiny white sheet folded neatly in half and holds it out to me.

"These were the names your schoolmate gave me. I only need you to confirm them for me, Mister Rocket."

I don't move to take it. I stare at it as though a scorpion poised to strike. Dean Mouser drops her brow. Her lips press together, rippling the caked lipstick.

"I understand your apprehension, Mister Rocket."

She hasn't got one fucking clue.

I don't think _I _have any fucking clue.

"But the charges filed against these young men are serious offenses. Furthermore, you are doing no one any good by protecting these students. They need to face consequences for their actions."

I draw my brow together – picturesque obstinate – chew my inner cheek until I taste blood.

"You aren't doing yourself any good. Many of your teachers have already noticed a drop in your schoolwork, Mister Rocket. I know it's not easy to concentrate in such a highly stressful situation."

It's not easy to concentrate when you're desperately yearning to see the dark, sultry figure of a tryst gone viral either.

"I can't do anything for you, Mister Rocket, unless you tell me the truth. You can be a trouble-maker at times, true, but I know you're good at heart. You're also a smart young man and I know you are smart enough to figure out what the right thing to do is."

She wags the paper at me. I scowl at it. Hateful bit of bleached mulch. Stomach acids sear the top of my throat. I take the paper from her outstretched hand. Unfold it. Glare at it. Will it to crumble into dust. There are three names neatly scrawled in Sam's nervous, trembling hand.

I realize, in that moment, that single moment arching into eternity, that I've lost something. With the ease of a falling guillotine he's written it away. This something...something I cannot name or describe or vividly draw a picture of in my mind's eye. Yet, it is something precious to me, something I didn't even know I possessed, but now that I'm losing it I cannot bear the pain of being without it.

Goddammit, Sam. Why didn't he just jab a red-hot rod of iron through my eyes?

I skim the names. I don't really read them. I'm concentrating on keeping my face a mask of emotion. I'm feeling too many things at once and I'm not entirely sure of their meaning or how to even begin processing them. Mostly I just want to break something.

I nod, quick and short.

"Yeah. That's them," I murmur. My voice is strange. It doesn't sound like my own. It is faraway. A harsh and strangled whisper, the dying plea of a man torn asunder.

I hand the paper back. Dean Mouser accepts it. She smiles at me, its meant as an encouragement, but it crawls under my skin and nibbles at the bone.

"I'll take care of these students. I'll give your father a call today, also, let him know what's been going on. I'm sure he's worried about you at home if your recent behavior at school is any indication."

My father's only concern at home is the hamburger grill. I think I'm going to be sick. I feel her next words more than hear them.

"Congratulations. Your Saturday detentions are over, Mister Rocket." Her smile widens, she flashes a hint of caffeine stained porcelain. "I'm sure you're eager to get back to surfing or skateboarding or whatever it is you'd much rather be spending your weekend doing."

Fuck you, bitch.

She wouldn't know the half of what I'd rather spend my weekend doing. She probably can't remember the last time someone bent her over a desk and fucked her senseless.

I screw my eyes shut, close out the suddenly blinding light of reality. I try to hold my heart in, its attempting to rip out of its cage. I'm back to the beginning of two years ago. I never see Lars Rodriguez. He is a thought of a thought of a thought hovering in the back of my mind. He is so far away, I can't even spot him in my peripheral. His last word to me, tumbling carelessly from his lips to my ears, fades in the passage of time: _Dork._

It isn't fair. There was only one more day. I knew where I was before, but now I'm lost. Time and space are unwinding around me.

"Well, now, that's over and done with. You can head back to class, Mister Rocket."

I steady myself, breath in and out a few times. Try to get my bearings straight. I grip the arms of the plush chair, use them to lift myself up.

_Over and done_. Yes. It is all over and done. I exit the room, wander aimlessly through the front office, stumble out into the school hall. I've been hit by a speeding vehicle, knocked flat on my back. Part of me, an automated part that has suddenly kicked in, recognizes that it's passing period. Students are rushing through the halls, brushing past me, or gathered in circles with friends laughing and chatting, disregarding me as I search for my standing in this new and foreign place.

And then, I see him.

Purpose overwhelms me. I cross the hall in long, solid strides. He is slammed back against the locker, it answers in a rickety scream of protest, and I snap firmly back into the here and now.

"What the fuck did you do?" I hiss. Timid blue darts to my face then races away once more. He quakes under my grasp. His bottom lip droops out, it trembles pathetic. I almost want to let him go if for nothing else than to avoid getting the fear oozing off him onto myself.

"What _you_ should have done," he remarks. He doesn't sound convinced.

"Otto, what the hell is your problem?"

Oh, well, shit. My sister is here too. She hovers beside us, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. She seems caught, uncertain of whether to break us apart or simply watch the impending disaster. I don't care what she does. In the end she'll take his side, she always does. Fuck, I don't care what either of them do. Both of them deserve each other. Stuck up, know-it-all, nosy jerks.

My fist slams the wall near Sam's head. He flinches violently, body coiling into itself, face pinching shut.

"Stay away from me," I tell him. All of them can just stay the hell away from me.

I turn away and stalk away down the hall. My sisters call after me but I don't hear her. Fuck her. Fuck the both of them. Fuck every single one of them.

None of them understand how I feel.

Fuck, how could they?

I don't even understand how I feel.

Dammit. I have my Saturdays back, I should be happy.

Everything pounding in my head, every single question, every single thought is the same: Lars. I swallow down the lump in my throat. I close my eyes a moment, shudder against the calm of the coming storm.


End file.
